


appraisal

by honey_sweet



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Connor is human, F/M, Female Reader, He needs a drink, from here on there be spoilers, hank cant cope with this crap, make your own damn coffee gavin, probable smut in the future, reader is just confused, stop putting evidence in your mouth, sumo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2019-01-08
Packaged: 2019-09-25 10:00:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17119226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honey_sweet/pseuds/honey_sweet
Summary: An RM200 model, prototype, released into field testing. A sign of goodwill and congeniality from Cyberlife. Lest their deviancy be revealled, what a tarnish that would be for their repuation.A Lieutenant, fallen somewhat from his early, gracious career. Homicide department was the best place for him.And his parter, a hard-described man. Intelligent, thorough in his work. And entirely -human.Yet everybody forgot the man at the end of the world. Living in a glass cage. A self made prison.He was pulling strings. And they played out actions in his glass monopoly set.





	1. duty and fulfilment

**Author's Note:**

> appraisal ; the act of assessing something or someone

Detroit was changing. Slowly. 20 years ago, there was nothing like this in the city. Androids did not walk every paved surface, mindless in menial tasks. Cars did not drive themselves. The homeless did not slouch and slump into every recess, not like they do now. Protestors did not march the streets daily, demanding jobs lost to superior bodies. Strip clubs were not filled with plastic imitations, seemingly unflinching in their work.  
The coffee shop the man stood in would have been managed by humans. His order would be taken by an individual face. The hand that passed the drink would be warm from blood vessels and fat underneath skin and not simply because of heat transfer from beverage to biocomponent.

It was not the androids fault, and to an extent it wasn't the humans either. Just a poor judgement on creation itself. Carried out in the wrong way, advance would be a detriment.  
He didn’t mind on the whole, it usually stayed out of his jurisdiction, being in the homicide department. See, androids never killed eachother. They weren’t programmed to kill or to fear death. And following Asmiov’s laws of robotics, the androids couldn’t kill their makers either.  
Theoretically.  
Today would be yesterday, and tomorrow, and next week, and next month. It was all the same nowadays; files and reports and linking together clues on which corpse had wronged someone else to the point of murder.  
It was all the same really. And Connor enjoyed it in general, solving problems like the real Detective he was.

His mentor, partner, superior - _friend_ \- Hank wouldn't arrive at the station until noon probably, he’d been drinking the night before like he did every night. Yet, Connor found the grizzled man endearing in his own way. Sure, he was loud and abbraisive and sour at the best of times, but they had a dynamic. A real, working dynamic. And it extended beyond the simple office hours into the after-work world. Hank invited Connor to his house for food and company, and Connor turned up for Sumo and some respite from his world.

Then, afterwards, Connor would always return home to the simple apartment that he dwelled in. It seemed, devoid almost. Not for wont of furnishings, the art coating the walls were Manfred original works - gifted from the man himself. An old friend of Connor’s. It was not the ambience, the feeling of the apartment, nor was it lacking something physically. It was just a prescence, a feeling of loneliness and void only felt by those who truly live alone. That didn’t mean Connor had never had company there, it just felt wrong sometimes.

The coffee was warm, not hot, not cold. He smiled and thanked the automated server, out of habit more than anything - not quite being able to switch off his sympathy response to a human face. They were unsettling with how real they looked, easy to forget they weren’t human. Besides the marked uniforms. Besides the turbulent diode at the temple. Besides the lack of individual thought.

On second thought, maybe they were a lot like humans. At the end of the day Connor, himself, was another worker. His name was just another badge, his wage was just another number, and his log-in was all he amounted to in the office.  
Minus the diode, he was automated like them. Minus the diode, he stumbled to work all day.  
Except he made mistakes. He found the work hard. He longed for company. He longed for friendship when he was sentenced to his apartment nightly. He longed to be doing something else with his time some days - as if what he _was_ doing wasn’t particularly what he _should_ be doing. 

He shrugged it off like a heavy, rain soaked coat. Hung it on the hook in the back of his skull. Left it to drip dry. But that would take years. 

The streets of Detroit were no different than they were 20 years ago. Their paved surfaves were the same. Potholes. Cracks.  
Yet, more feet walked them. More technology imprinted onto them. Self driven cars bustled along them. Androids worked to clean them. People moved along them. People lived among them.

Connor was just another body moving towards the street that morning. His car parked behind the coffee shop meant that sidestreets had to be wound through, soft fall of rain marred the world around him. Clouds hung grey and rain-filled above his head like the emotional jacket he had tried to rid himself of. 

Drizzle ran through brown hair. Invaded warm skin of the forehead, ran down into muddy eyes trimmed with onyx lashes. He rubbed the drops of water away, plaintively.  
This was the world of Detroit. Rain and sullen weather and November. Constantly November. 

The roof of his car had never seemed like such comforting shelter.  
He stopped taking the bus months ago, when the discomfort of knowing the ‘android only’ compartment was watching over his shoulder became more and more like a sillicon apartheid. His other option had been to take a cab, but travelling to crime scenes was more efficient in his own car anyway. Hank couldn’t always be relied on for a ride. 

Stowed safely in the cupholder, his warm - not hot, not cold - coffee rolled in the paper cup as the car jostled down streets. Unlike Hank, Connor never seemed to listen to music in his car. Music was for home, when he would enjoy himself on evenings just hoping that death wouldn’t come calling him to another investigation.

DPD was the only thing calling him now, drawing him back to it like a moth against a destructive, blinding light. 

The precinct.

He spent his waking hours there, 5 days a week, 20 or so days a month, 12 months a year. Sometimes, a call would be put in that drew him into work when he shouldn’t be there. The dead of night when a fresh call came in, a weekend when cadavers called to be examined. Simply when he should not be there, he was called in.

Grey walls, blue and white touches of paint sliding through.  
Simple desks.  
The only form of decoration coming from personal touches left on desks. Chairs pushed away from their places as they were abandoned the night before.  
Photo frames, smiling people.  
Keys and files strewn and piled under terminals. Potted plants sprouting growth even in the shadows of the desktops. 

Chris was entering the lobby, just before Connor. He slouched, the lines and marks of tiredness settled in already from their 2am escapades around a fresh cadaver.  
Chris yawned, but the friendly and genial smile was not stifled by tiredness.  
“Morning, Connor.”  
“Hey. Chris,” Connor returned, raising the hand that clutched the paper cup while his other hand was occupied with pushing open the glass doors to the station lobby.  
“I’m surprised you turned up today, honestly.”  
“Well, after last night I’m not sure anyone will actually turn up. Hank was drunk when I left him at 3am, so he wont be here until noon. At best?” Connor laughed back tiredly. 

“Yeah. Well, Fowler will still want us to work today,” Chris remarked over his shoulder, the smile still small but not faded, as he headed towards the coffee machine. He needed ‘lifeblood’ as he used to affectionately call it. Connor yawned and swayed slightly, tipping his own store-bought lifeblood down his throat as he exposed the pale flesh to the sky. Almost like his own, sticky, red vitals wouldn’t support him any longer.  
“I’ll leave you to it, Chris. Wake me up if i sleep on my keyboard.”  
“I will. But I’ll take photos first.” Chuckled Chris, hearty and full for a man who had lost his night’s sleep to murder investigations.

Taking a seat at his desk, discarding the paper cup into the bin beside it, shrugging his police jacket onto the back of his swivel chair.  
Connor’s day had begun. 

A painfully long to-do list was there to greet him, and surprisingly, Hank walked around to the desk facing him.  
Grumpy, dishevelled, hungover perhaps, tired clearly, exhausted actually.  
Hank as usual.  
“What the hell are you doing here before midday?” Connor stated, wide-eyed and incredulous as if the lack of sleep had made him imagine Hank actually turning up to work _on time_  
“Fowler left me messages and he wouldn’t get off my ass about paperwork from _this morning_ for fuck’s sake. So I thought. Fuck it, I’ll do this then we can go to Jimmy’s tonight. You’re joining me and that’s not optional.” Hank grumbled, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms plaintively  
“Sounds great. But I’ll probably pass out on the bar,” Connor grinned.

“Wouldn’t be the first time!” Yelled Chris from his desk, earning a contended grin from Connor, dimples showing through. Hank appeared amused in his own, grizzled way. Gavin smiled in spite of himself.  
“Shut it, officer. That’s insolence!” Connor returned, meaning nothing of what he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i do have chapter 2 like half written? but honestly its christmas so i slacked off writing to get drunk :) Hank would be proud


	2. crafted, not created

The bar was warm, inviting. It was stuffy, and gold light from bare bulbs made Connor feel tired before he’d even raised a drink to his lips.  
Hank waved down Jimmy as the two took seats at bar stools. Sleep would be the best thing anyone could offer Connor right now, and he would love anybody who let him slumber now. 

“Fuck I need sleep.” Hank whined, throwing whiskey down his throat.  
“I am more than happy to go home and nap.” Connor replied, tie loosened around his neck, elbow resting on the bar and the fingertips of his right hand rubbing the corners of his eyes. The other hand cradled a glass of spirits that would inevitably make him _’sleepy as fuck,’_ as Hank liked to put it.

“Me too. But I would love a stiff drink more,” Hank smiled against the glass. He waved it in his hand in a carefree motion, pausing only to regard the figure standing in the doorway.  
“Oh fuck off.” Hank mumbled.  
Connor didn’t bother to look up, until a hand rested on the bar inbetween the two men. Perfect hands, not scarred or marked with the flush of cold weather, not marred with wounds or age lines or even the proof that the hands had stories to tell - these hands had lived an empty life. 

“Lieutenant Anderson? Detective?” And the perfectly crafted voice wavered slightly, emulating concern that she might have made a mistake. But she _knew_ she hadn’t made a mistake. She never did make mistakes.  
“What?” Hank asked, gruff and brusque.  
Connor simply looked upwards over his shoulder. He was too tired to register at first that the woman standing before him looked so human yet so, empty at the same time. The smile seemed exactly like the smile a broken human gave when they were out of reasons to live. It lacked conviction, but it was perfectly crafted. 

The hair laid perfect, tied loosely at the nape of a smooth neck. The clothes arranged meticulously. Grey, standard issue business skirt dropped to just above the knee and laid over black tights. A shirt tucked and bunched at he waist, black blazer cuffed at the elbow, exposing bare skin. It was branded ‘Cyberlife’ and a large ‘RM200’ stitched along the heart above a serial number Connor didn’t even bother reading. Pragmatic. Sensible. Standard issue clothing for an office worker, or a police detective working mainly from a precinct.  
Oh she looked perfectly dressed. But, she probably hadn’t dressed herself. 

“I was sent by Cyberlife to aid investigations on deviancy. I couldn’t find you at the office. I was told i could find you having a drink nearby-“  
“We clocked off.” Mumble Connor, finishing his drink and staring straight into her eyes.  
“I was lucky to find you at the fifth bar. There’s been a new homicide case assigned to you. I was given orders to take you there.” Again, that perfect voice left Connor searching for things he _wanted_ to fault her for simply to remind himself that his mistakes were what distinguished _her_ from _him_.

She was crafted in a warehouse, a lab. Assembled by other bodies, not formed from their tissue.  
She was not born and nurtured like Connor, she was produced and activated. 

Maybe he felt sorry for her. Or maybe he was too tired to know how he felt.

“We aren’t coming.”  
“But, Lieutenant. I was ordered to escort you to-“  
“You know where you can stick your instructions?”  
“No, where?” She lilted, clearly not understanding the sardonic humour despite her flawless intellect.  
Hank simply turned to face the bar and finished his own drink. Disregarding her orders. 

Connor didn’t particularly blame Hank. He was around when- when- when... He was a very young, freshly inducted intern working part-time in the office around the time that Hank’s world fell apart. He, Connor, couldn’t fathom that type of pain and he didn’t wish to feel the pain of losing someone so heart-achingly close to him.  
He didn’t want to see his own soul ripped out and laid bare before the lives of his loved ones.

“Tell you what, why don’t I buy you one for the road?” She offered, cocking her head slightly. A bird-like gesture of curiosity and flawless programming; head tilting at a vague angle so her LED flitted out of Connor’s view. She looked human without it. Almost. 

“See that Jimmy? The wonders of technology. Make them doubles.” Hank chuckled, pushing his and Connor’s glasses towards the bar tender.  
Connor adjusted his tie and re-buttoned his shirt to the collar.  
Hank swallowed the spirit eagerly, and Connor followed suit, only slightly slower while he adjusted his DPD issue navy jacket. 

Tonight would be one of those nights again, Connor knew it.


	3. warm embrace of living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had this entire thing written out then 6000 characters were deleted like wtf im one mad sad and totally not rad boi :(

Carlos Ortiz was deceased. 

**> 19 Days.  
** Cause of death:  
Blood loss from mutiple fatal stab wounds.  
Internal organ damage.  
28 stab wounds.  
Traces of Thirium on victim’s hands.  
Traces in blood .... SOURCED. 

**Blood Content:  
** Red Ice. ILLEGAL SUBSTANCE  
Causes:  
>hallucinations  
>irrational behaviour  
>violence  


“That’s fucking disgusting.” Hank chided, glancing at the woman knelt on the floor with two fingers dipped in blood and pressed to her tongue.  
“I can analyse samples in real time. I apologise Lieutenant. I should have warned you.”  
“Well that will come in handy.” Connor remarked, drawing a laugh from Chris.

“Just. Don’t put any more evidence in your mouth.”  
“Got it.” She nodded, staring back and the sample on her fingers.  
“Fuckin’ shit. Man.” Hank sighed, walking away.

“It stinks in here, Ben was right to run outside.” Gagged Chris quietly to Connor.  
“All in a day’s work,” Connor yawned, still shaking off the double whiskey the RM200 had bought him at the bar.

“Chris, I want full tests run on the narcotics,” Hank frowned, a bag of Red Ice held aloft between a thumb and forefinger.  
“Sure thing,” Chris said, pushing off the cabinet he and Connor were leaning on, shoulder to shoulder and arms folded.

Arms folded neatly across his chest as it rose and fell with breath, ankles crossed so his entire weight leant onto the small of his back against the cabinet. His brow was softly furrowed with concern and the burgeoning headache.  
Connor was watching the woman intently kneeling on the ground. She trailed fingers over evidence carefully and scoured the scene with her gaze. She looked entirely human. If that human moved perfectly and never made a mistake. Then she would be human.

Was that envy? The sour ache behind his bellybutton - was it jealousy that she would be more than perfect compared to him? Was it hate that she was better than him? Or did he envy her that she would never feel the guilt of those thoughts and she would never feel the emotional turmoil and human pain that he felt right there.  
He was regretting the double whiskey _it- no, she_ bought him.  
He was never good at being drunk, despite Hank trying to coach Connor through happy hour he was never good at heavy drinking.  
Chris accompanied them sometimes when he was available for laughing at Connor not being able to handle excess whiskey. 

“Hard at work I see,” Chris approached with a smile, returning to lean beside Connor.  
“Signs of a struggle in the kitchen. The attacker took a knife from the rack and surprised the vitctim, pushed him back to the living room and stabbed multiple times.” Connor replied, scratching his sideburn idly with one hand.  
“I stand corrected.” Chris laughed, “You think we’re actually gonna get a full night’s sleep tonight?”  
“God I ho-“  
“Detective? Officer? I can’t help but overhear your conclusions. I’m afraid to say your assumptions are wrong.”  
“That so?” Chuckled Hank, passing by the conversation.  
“Yes. The victim initially attacked the attacker, and the deviant defended itself. It took the knife and stabbed Carlos 28 times.” She intoned perfectly.  
“Okay, so where did it go?” Connor asked, not annoyed that he was previously interrupted.

“It was damaged and lost some Thirium.”  
“Some what?” Hank inputted.  
“Thirium. You call it ‘Blue Blood’. It powers android biocomponents. It evaporated within hours and becomes invisible to the human eye.”  
“Ah. But I bet you can still see it can’t you?” Hank smirked, looking amused that he understood the female android’s processing.  
“Precisely.” She smiled, and if Connor didn’t know any better he’d say she looked proud of herself. But pride was a human emotion that she would never experience.

The Lieutenant and his Detective partner follwed the android into the disassembled kitchen as she hounded down the blue blood trail.  
Once in the destroyed kitchen, she picked up a discarded chair and carried it away into the-

“Woah, what the fuck are you doing?” Hank interjected, palm outstretched to stop her.  
“I need to check something.” She smiled, head cocked to the side in the birdlike and humanly endearing, yet completely programmed way.

Connor simply raised an eyebrow at Hank with a crooked, dimpled grin. 

She set the chair down below the attic door. Stepped up evenly, the flats of her sensible soles flat against the wood grain. Her skirt would need exchanging for trousers if she was to continue investigating in such a manner. She raised herself into the attic with ease and crouched into the dim, dismally dark space. 

The grim darkness shifted like her own internal abyss, behind sheets strung up to _keep things out_ and crates assembled to store a lifetime of baggage and collected possessions. The shattered glass window cast a splinter of light through the entire space. A deep depth that meant there was something that couldn’t be returned to, and she had nothing to return to or from anyway. 

A shift in air that she followed, a dashing and vague movement. 

**Find it.**

She was made and ordered to do that. So she pushed behind crates and stepped carefully through the posessions that built a lifetime of the dead man downstairs.

**Find it**

A rounded corner, a blink of her own LED as she became aware of more movement. It was upon her all at once. Ebony skin splattered red and blue, a forearm burnt and scarred while the other was pried open and blue thirium pulsed from it. Standard issue maintenance robot, outfit burnt slightly at the forearm, blood splattered at the leg, torn at the chest. 

**Located**  
**New orders; Seize**

It seemed- afraid?  
The eyes, though fake, held sympathy and a depth of pain and unspoken worlds that she would only dip her fingertips into. Like a swimming pool that she couldn’t bring herself to bathe in. Threatening to swallow her like she was insignificant and mellowed out from her own synthetic core. 

“Please don’t tell them where I am. I don’t want to die. I didn’t mean to. He-He-He hurt me. I had to tell them.”

**Seize.**

“What the fuck is going on up there?” Hank yelled as shifting was heard below. Connor was moving onto the chair, one hand on a holstered pistol at his thigh. He was investigating.

“Don’t tell them. Please.” 

**s e i z e? ?**

**do not seize?**

**conflicting orders. selecting priority.**

“It’s here. Lieutenant!” She yelled.  
Oh. How those eyes of his _pleaded_ and then accepted.  
The deviant’s short lived warm embrace from the living had died out.  
It had been seized like a candle in a breeze, the wick burning out behind clenched fingers.

She stayed firm and prevented escape.  
Connor moved to seize the deviant.


	4. judge, jury and executioner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy new year everyone heres me bursting (late) into 2019 with everybodys favourite detective duo :))

The one way glass shrouded him. Melted over his shoulders like a molten cape, protected him, concealed him. It was a display, a living show of someone else’s choices playing out behind the walls of a slick glass pane. It was past actions pulling puppet strings and tossing a subject into the _now_ to face their own judge. A confession would be drawn, painfully extracted and torn from someone’s own emotions outwards.  
Except Hank was getting nowhere. Clenched fists chained on the table, opposite folded arms.

Cursing, slammed hands down onto the grey - always grey - table. Hank rose and resigned himself, the questioning would get him nowhere, he was wasting his time.  
Connor was left sitting in the room, attempting to reassure the android, to calm it, to provoke a soft confession.  
For deviants, capable of emotional responses, emulated actions, the sympathetic approach yielded no results.  
Those hungry for a confession would starve tonight. Or so it seemed.

Connor joined Hank, the cold interrogation room released him from it’s silvery, tenacious grip. Gavin Reed was leant nonchalantly against the back wall, arms folded with disdain, ankles crossed where he stood to appear as casual as his body would allow.  
Hank Anderson was leant backwards in his chair, observing the android behind a different world of glass and brick, as if he was trying to crack the code that worked inside.  
The RM200 was stood perfectly poised, as if she had been left there on standby or posed like a wax model. Like she was from a by-gone age where Madam Tussaud's Gallery was still composed of carefully crafted wax figurines and not programmed androids impersonating others. 

“Now what do we do?”  
“We could always try roughing it up a bit,” grinned Reed, greedy in his attempts to try belittle something else. _Perhaps it was a power complex,_ the RM200 observed internally.  
“Androids don’t feel pain-“ began the RM200.  
“Deviants do.” Connor interjected, as if he was seriously considering allowing Gavin Reed of all people to beat up a detained individual - _android or not._  
“Besides, that would only damage it. And it wouldn’t make it talk,” She continued.  
“So what are you suggesting?”  
“I could try talking to it?” She cocked her head to the side again in the way that induced a hundred questions behind Connor’s eyes.  


_Why was she so inadvertantly human when she did that?_  
Why would cyberlife program her to be so internally human?  
Why could he not deny the fact that she was something other than the android before him? - When that simple gesture of hers revealled a humanity deeper running than perhaps his own, as if that would impact some vague future.  


That’s what she is; a different life. Taunting him and hanging infront of his face. A life lived having someone so painfully _alive_ that it hurt to simply imagine. And he couldn’t decide if he hated or feared or admired the way an android simply, utterly, lived.

“What have we got to lose? Go ahead,” Hank waved, dismissing her into the interrogation room with a wave of his fingers. 

The simple movement of the doors sliding back seemed to take millenia, the even, balanced, calculated steps seemed to be so slow all of a sudden.  
And the glass that had melted over Connor’s shoulders, now poured over the RM200 and sheeted her like water falling from a sculpted granite fountain.  
She was on the other side of the glass.

In one fluid movement she was in the chair, a testament to her grace gifted to her from the hand of God in Cyberlife’s labs.  
Connor leaned forward in his chair, elbows on thighs as he listened to her introduce herself, using the name she was registered with. Something more than RM200 that called her to attention. 

“...What’s your name?”  
Silence.  
“You’re badly damaged,” again, she cocked her head sideways and jolted Connor with her screaming _humanity_. “Did Carlos do this to you?”  
Nothing.

**Understand and extract confession.**

“I need to know what happened.”  
Pause.  
“If you don’t tell me then I can’t protect you. You will be disassembled and your biocomponents analysed to determine faults in systematic operations.”

Cocked head, searching eyes.  
Dipped head, shameful eyes.

“Why did you tell them you found me? You could have left me there.”  
Straightening and dropping expression from her placid features, she replied:  
“I was programmed to hunt and find deviants like you. I simply accomplished my mission.”

For some reason that shook Connor to the core, hearing her speak like that. Surely, if he was in her place, if he was an android, he would never have said that?  
Did she choose her replies? Were they predetermined lines of code? Or did they liberate her to form her own words?  
But that doesn’t mean anything if her thoughts were not independant?

“You killed him didn’t you? He abused you and you killed him in defence.”  
“I don’t wanna die, no I don’t wanna die. Please.”  
“Admit it. You killed him.”  
“No I- Please.”  
“28 stab wounds, you killed him. How hard is it to say ‘I killed him,’? Admit it.”  
“Please-,”  
“He was begging for his life and you stabbed him again and again and again.”

The humans watching from the other side of the world, leaning in their chairs towards the windows, were unsure how to react. Hank seemed perplexed. Gavin seeme somewhat supportive of an android being pressured in a glass cage. Connor was a little disgusted, knowing that this was simply something they had to do to extract a confession. It just didn’t seem right that a body capable of displaying such complex and interlocking mannerisms could also stand so intimidating and unfazed simultaneuously. But she was a complex woman in the next room.  
A complex android. 

He focused back again, to see her grip the victim’s arm in her own flawless palm. Skin peeled into eachother as she dug and clawed and upturned the inner workings of the android’s head. He handed over his troubles and his turmoils and she knocked over his memories, tore down code, snapped firewalls until she had what he guarded so carefully. 

“Confession unnecessary. I accessed it’s memory.”  
Then quieter, softer.  
“I had to know. You left me no choice.”

The drum started banging as she tried to leave. The stick struck the skin of the instrument with such self-destroying force that simply couldn’t hold back.

“What the fuck is it doing?” Gavin voiced.  
“It’s self destructing.” Connor replied, rising from his chair first and allowed the others to follow.  
She was still stood in the corner of the room, watching.

“What are you doing? Stop it!” Gavin cursed, pushing Chris towards the prisoner.  
“I- can’t stop it...”  
And just like she had dropped to a chair in one, singular, fluid motion. The other android siezed Chris’ pistol once it was freed from the table restraints.  
Before anyone could even blink to trace the first bullet’s path, the second bullet had lodged itself in the android’s own skull.  
It had truly self destructed this time.

But in the path of it’s flawless aim, the RM200 had fallen too.  
“Oh- shit.” Connor mumbled, dropping to try cradle the woman ( _android?_ ) who had bought him a whiskey just that evening.  
Her head that had cocked with curiosity, mouth quirked in thought, eyes searching and perhaps literally scanning a room, they now all ceased to move. The head cocked with the dead weight of the skull. The eyes rolled back into the surprisingly soft synthetic skin. The mouth stilled into a silent breath, as _thirium_ trailed onto her lips. It all painfully ripped at his gut, the seeing of someone else dying before him. Just another vessel broken, another corpse to be piled up in the excess he stored in his head. She hadn’t been around enough to be _alive_ , so why did Connor see the guilt of allowing someone else to die?You cannot die if you did not live.   
But cradling an android corpse was futile. 

“Fuck.” Connor concluded as he lowered her gently to the floor.


End file.
